The Visit
by Connell
Summary: One shot. What if Dawn, Trey and Ryan went to visit PapaAtwood in the clink? Rated R for language, 'cause them Atwoods sure do cuss a lot!


Disclaimer: "The OC" is the property of Josh Schwartz and Fox. I own nothing. Seriously. Not a damn thing. Not even my car, my house, my television or my younger son. They all belong to my older son. He's two. If you don't believe me, just ask him.

A.N.: Although not verbatim, the state prison visitation rules and procedure used in this story generally coincide with those issued by the California Department of Corrections.

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"Trey." When Ryan's hushed voice isn't enough to wake his brother, he leans over the front seat and pokes him in the shoulder a couple of times. "_Trey._"

"The fuck?"

"He just left."

As Trey wakes up, the first thing he's aware of is how fucking cold it is. _Shit!_ He'd tried to get Ryan to let him turn on the car's heat, but his little brother had fought him on it—some mumbo-jumbo bullshit about carbon monoxide poisoning and both of them dying in their sleep. Not that it was the remote possibility of not waking that changed Trey's mind. He'd had the key in the ignition and was just about to crank it when Ryan's panicked voice brought up the much more frightening and immediate proposition that running the car would draw attention to it—which, in turn, would draw attention to them. And if there was one thing that two boys sleeping in a rusted out junker in the parking lot of a seedy motel dressed only in t-shirts and their skivvies didn't need—well, yeah—attention.

"You're sure you saw him leave?"

"I'm positive."

"Cause I don't want to get my ass kicked again—like with that shithead in Reno."

"I saw him go."

"Yeah—that's what you said in Reno." Trey runs a hand through the thick shag carpeting of the car's floorboard and his fingers immediately locate and surround the cold metal key.

"You're positive?"

"Positive."

"And—he wasn't covered in blood or anything?"

"That's not funny."

"You see me laughing? She's an idiot—and it'll probably get her killed one of these days."

Their mother had come into the room sometime after 2:00 a.m. Groggy as he had been, Ryan had also been just perceptive enough to grab the motel and car keys off the dresser as he was being tossed from the room by the 200 lb. stranger their mother had brought back with her. The boys had spent the remainder of the night in the car, Ryan on the front bench seat and Trey in the back. They were in their underwear, since the man hadn't given them enough time to grab their clothing—or even a blanket—when he pulled them roughly from the bed, launched them toward the door and shoved them out into the cold night. The boys had been lucky that Ryan had somehow managed to spot and snag both sets of keys when he swiped his hand across the dresser on the way out. He would not have had a second chance.

"Do you want me to go in first? Make sure she isn't dead—or naked, or something?"

Ryan nods and waits while his brother crosses the 20 feet between the car and their mother's room, opens the door and disappears inside. It's a few agonizing seconds later that the door opens again and he gets the thumbs up. At this hour of the morning, there isn't any sign of life, but he checks carefully in all directions, anyway, before stepping out of the car. As he sprints across the cold pavement in his bare feet, a cool breeze and a light rain slap against his uncovered legs and it briefly occurs to him that he really should be re-thinking his choice of bedtime wear.

Trey's already sitting, propped up against the headboard and under the sheets, when Ryan enters the room. He notices immediately that the comforter is missing from the bed as he watches his brother grab the remote and turn the TV to SportsCenter.

After a panicked glance at the clock, Ryan goes over to where his mother is lying on the room's other bed. The missing comforter that drapes her sleeping form confirms that he was right in taking Trey up on his offer to go in first.

"Mom. Hey, Mom." Ryan tugs on her shoulder. The soft and familiar sound of her snoring catches and for the most fleeting of moments, he thinks she's going to awaken. Instead, she reaches out a lazy hand and swats at him. She then turns over, mumbles something incomprehensible, reaches for a pillow and pulls it close to her body. The snoring resumes a few seconds later. What remains of her heavily applied makeup is smudged across her lips and face and onto the pillow beneath her.

"Good luck. No way she's gonna get up."

"She's got to." He leaves his mother long enough to pull the curtains open. The sun hasn't quite made it up, yet—so the act offers nothing by way any dramatic brightening of the room or in otherwise helping him with the formidable task of waking his mother.

"Why?"

Ryan shoots his brother a look that lets him know that they're both privy to the answer to that particular question as he circles the room, switching on the lights.

"God, Ryan, you really want to see him so bad?"

"I dunno—I guess."

"He's an asshole."

"I know."

"So—I don't get it."

Ryan shrugs, not knowing how to answer. Because he doesn't entirely understand it, either. He thinks it may just be as simple as the fact that he'd asked. That he'd gone through the trouble of arranging the visit—of sending the forms and making sure they were processed when they were returned—of mailing the confirmation. That the sincerity of the request was evident in the effort it had taken to make it a reality. And, as far as reasons for wanting to see your own father go—well, even Ryan knows it sounds pretty lame. But, since it's all he can come up with—he figures that's probably it.

He pulls on a pair of tan chinos and resumes yanking on his mother's shoulder. "C'mon, Mom, wake up."

Finally, Dawn forces open one blood-shot eye and struggles to focus it on her younger son—wonders what the hell he's doing in her room so early in the morning—wonders why he's tugging on her so relentlessly—wonders how to make him. Just. Go away.

"Go away."

"The sheet says we have to get there early."

"Get where?"

"The prison, Mom." Ryan's response confirms that the thoughts that are chasing each other haphazardly around inside of her head are actually somehow managing to tumble out of her mouth. She groans and shuts her eye again—remembers where she is—and why she's there. It does nothing to improve her mood.

"What time is it?"

"Almost seven."

"Fifteen more minutes—I need 15 more minutes."

"The sheet says we should be there by eight."

Dawn groans again. The sheet. Ryan and that sheet. He'd gone all _Rainman _about the fucking sheet, ever since it arrived in the mail slot in the envelope with the prison's return address and John's announcement that the family's visit had been approved. That kid. She was sure he had the prison's rules memorized. Which was no small task, since there seemed to be hundreds of them. Too many for Dawn to even begin to contemplate.

The very thought of them was making her head spin. Actually, not so much spin. More like it made her head hurt—which, come to think of it, might be a good sign. Because, if she's edging into hangover territory, she probably isn't still drunk. And, not being drunk is a definite plus—since she's pretty sure that showing up intoxicated is somewhere on that goddamn sheet's list of _do's and don'ts_. And if she were a betting lady—which she is—odds were pretty high that it isn't a _do_.

"Yeah, okay." She starts to get up, but stops, suddenly, when she notices her state of undress.

"Shit." She growls, pulling the comforter around her and awkwardly scooting to the edge of the bed.

If she hears Trey snort, she ignores him. She stands, wrapped in the blanket and shuffles her feet slowly across the motel's stained and tread-worn carpet, stopping just long enough to grab her duffle bag by the strap before resuming her shuffle, dragging it along the floor behind her.

"Find me an aspirin." She waves a hand in the general direction of her purse. "Fuck it. Find me a bunch." She disappears into the bathroom.

"Grab me a smoke while you're digging around in there."

Ryan tosses the Marlboros to his brother, along with their mother's lighter and watches as Trey tamps the unopened pack into the palm of his left hand, peels away the plastic and the paper and carefully extracts a cigarette.

"Ryan—aspirin—now." Their mother pokes her head back into the room and actually manages to catch the pill bottle when he tosses it to her.

Spotting Trey, she points the bottle in his direction. "That'd better not be my last one."

He holds up the pack and waves it back and forth.

"You smoke too much."

"Fuck you, too."

"It'll stunt your growth."

"Not as much as getting knifed in the parking lot of a ghetto motel in the middle of the fucking night."

"Oh, don't be so dramatic. Nobody got knifed."

"No harm, no foul? Fuck that, Mom."

Dawn pauses for a few seconds, while she tries to find the right combination of words that will mollify her older son. Quickly recognizing the futility in it, she gives up and says nothing, instead.

"This is just like Reno all over again. You can't keep doing this, Mom. It's not fair to Ryan—or to me."

"This is _so_ not a conversation."

"Well—it should be."

"I won't do this. Not with you. You're 15. What I do is none of your goddamned business."

"That's really funny, Mom, 'cause it kinda felt like it was my goddamned business when I was freezing my nuts off in the back of the car in my fucking Underoos."

"Trey, I won't do this. Not today."

"Fine—but knock it off with the whole _mom thing_. It's bullshit and I'm in no fucking mood."

Ryan watches the familiar back and forth between his mother and brother. He jumps in when he senses a pause in the argument.

"Mom, we're gonna be late."

Dawn remains in the doorway, struggling with the top of the medicine bottle for a few seconds before he walks over and takes it from her. He opens it and hands it back—notes how shaky her hand is as she dumps a pile of the small white pills into her palm, throws them to the back of her throat and swallows them dry in one practiced motion. He hopes she can pull it together enough to make this whole thing happen. Or else the trip from Chino, all the planning, everything he did to make this happen, was just one big waste of time.

Trey waits until the water begins to run before holding out the cigarette and raising his eyebrows. Ryan nods, crosses the room and takes it from his brother, throwing a backwards glance towards the bathroom door.

"Keep it." Trey says, pulling another from the pack and lighting it. He gets out of bed, picks up his jeans from where he'd tossed them on the floor the night before and pulls them on.

"You can't wear those."

"Why not?"

"You know why—the sheet says no jeans."

"The sheet can kiss my ass."

"So—what? You come all this way and you're just gonna stand around in the waiting room while we go in there?"

"It'll be better than spending the day with Dad."

"You don't know that."

"Yeah—I do. Dad sucks."

_At least he's trying._ But, Ryan knows better than to argue the point. He also knows that Trey's trying, too. Because, as much as his brother's bitching and moaning—he's also here. He's in Fresno. Which is saying a lot, considering he'd been given the choice to stay at home. So, Ryan and Trey both know that at some point he will eventually change into something acceptable. But, they also know that in the meantime, Trey will gripe—and Ryan will be forced to listen to him gripe.

"Why can't we wear jeans anyway? That's the stupidest rule I've ever heard. You can wear jeans to church, but not to a prison? The fuck?"

"Prisoners wear jeans. It just makes it easier for the guards to know who's who." Ryan pulls the now tattered sheet from the back pocket of his chinos, where he'd carefully folded it the night before. "It pretty much says that you can't wear anything that looks like the stuff they do and specifically lists 'blue denim shirts,' 'blue chambray shirts' and 'blue denim pants.' "

"What the fuck is a _chamberry_?"

"I dunno. Just don't wear blue."

"Yeah, 'cause I really look like a fucking prisoner." Trey grabs his mother's purse and rifles through it. Comes up with a crumpled $10 bill. Slips the key ring around his right index finger and palms the keys.

"Where're you going?"

"Relax, there's a McDonalds a couple of blocks away. If we're gonna make it through this bullshit, Mom's gonna need some grease and coffee—and I need food."

Trey turns when he reaches the door. "I take it you don't want anything?"

"No thanks." Ryan's stomach is a mess of butterflies. "You want me to find you something to wear?"

"Yeah, okay. Whatever. I don't care. I just threw a bunch of shit in there. I don't even know what I brought."

As soon as the door closes behind him, Ryan opens his brother's bag and dumps the clothing onto the bed. Notes the bag of weed that falls out with the clothes. _Idiot_. _He's going to a prison and he brings weed?_ Ryan slips the bag into his pocket and puts the sheet of rules on the bed next to the clothes. Not that he needs to read the sheet to remember what's on it. But he's taking no chances.

_No blue pants._ Okay, easy enough, Trey had packed a pair of khakis. _Shirts cannot be blue, green, beige, brown or orange._ A little bit harder, since the only shirt Trey has that's in compliance is a black button-down. A black button-down that is ridiculously similar to the one shirt Ryan brought to wear. _Crap!_

Ryan opens his own bag. Searches for an alternative for himself. Finds nothing, until he glances down at the t-shirt he wore to bed. It's a faded red. Technically, it complies with the prison's visiting rules. Not particularly practical in the cold and damp weather of early spring. But, considering the only other option, he reluctantly decides that it will have to do.

"Ryan, I can wear purple, right?" Dawn pokes her head out of the bathroom and waves a purple blouse in her son's direction.

Caught off guard, Ryan glances back, over his shoulder—making sure his body remains between Dawn's line-of-sight and the cigarette that's now burning dangerously close to his fingers. Dawn had ripped him a new one only days before when she'd caught him smoking in his bedroom, flicking the ashes out the open window.

"Um—yeah."

"Read that list again. Not the shirts, but the rest of them."

"No clothing exposing more than two inches above the knee, including slits in shorts, dresses or skirts. No clothing exposing the breast or chest area. No clothing exposing the genital area or buttocks. Nothing transparent or sheer. No strapless tops, 'spaghetti' straps or clothing exposing the midriff area. Nothing with obscene or offensive language or drawings." He paraphrases, speaking at a rapid-fire pace, suddenly aware of the heat against his fingers as the cigarette's embers creep ever closer to his flesh.

"Okay, those—are stupid rules. There are a bunch of child molesters and rapists and serial killers in there and they think some stupid broad's gonna want to wear a miniskirt?"

"I don't think they let the serial killers hang out in the visiting room, Mom."

"Still—you gotta admit—only a whole lotta slut would wanna attract the attention of a bunch of convicts—ya' know? I mean—you gotta be a whole lotta slut—you need those rules." Dawn shakes her head in disbelief and disappears back into the bathroom.

Ryan quickly flicks the cigarette into the ashtray on the night stand, raises the inside of his middle finger to his lips and runs his tongue over the small, but angry red mark that had been left where he'd been singed. He shakes his hand out a couple of times and returns his attention to the task at hand.

He puts Trey's clothing in a neat little pile on the bed before picking up the list and carefully reviewing the rest of the items they'll need.

_Birth certificates._ He pulls the two documents from his bag, opens them to verify that they are what he knows they are and puts them on the bed next to the pile of his brother's clothing.

_Adults are allowed $30.00 in coin_. He locates the two rolls of quarters he'd gotten from the bank. $20 would have to do. The _coin_ had stumped him—briefly—until he realized that the prisoners probably had to go through a metal detector or something at the end of the visit. Change would deter slipping the prisoners money.

_One clear change purse._ He breaks open the paper surrounding the quarters and dumps them into the clear plastic pencil case he'd bought at the dollar store the week before.

_One valid identification for adults._ His mother's driver's license is thrown in the pencil case along with the quarters.

_Two keys on a ring—no attachments._ Although Trey was in current possession of the keys, Ryan had already separated the house and car keys from the mace, whistle and assorted other keys on his mother's chain before she had left to go out the night before.

_One comb_. Check.

_One handkerchief or one unopened pack of tissues_. Not necessary. If he was certain of anything, it was that there would be no tears at the table reserved for Atwood—party of four.

He double and then triple-checked the list with the small pile in front of him. He was pretty sure that was it. He then looked over the list of _don'ts_ again, just to make sure they wouldn't inadvertently bring in anything that was prohibited.

_No chewing gum. No cigarettes. No cameras. No pagers. No cell phones. No writing materials or books._

And the rules pertaining to the visit itself:

_An inmate and his visitor are allowed to embrace and kiss at the beginning and at the end of the visit. Holding hands in plain view and on top of the table is permitted. No other physical contact is allowed. Excessive contact is not permitted and could be cause for termination. Excessive contact includes, but is not limited to, kissing, massaging, stroking, touching parts of the body, sitting with legs intertwined or sitting on laps. No child over the age of seven is permitted to sit on an inmate's lap. Inmates may not receive any gifts, money, jewelry or documents during a visit. Inmates may not handle money at any time during the visit. Visitors may purchase two unopened packages of cigarettes from the vendor, for the inmate to take from the visit and may also purchase food for the inmate and themselves to consume during the visit. No outside food is permitted._

Easy enough. Excessive contact was not exactly an Atwood family trait. Or at least the kind of excessive contact they were referring to in the sheet.

"Where's Trey?" Dawn finally emerges from the bathroom.

"McDonalds. He should be back any minute."

"Light me a smoke, hon."

Ryan picks up the pack and the lighter from where Trey had discarded them. Sticks a cigarette in his mouth. Lights the flame. Sucks deeply to get it started and hands it over to his mother.

"So—how do I look?"

"Great, Mom." Ryan's responds through a cloud of smoke. Although his response is automatic, he does think she looks pretty good. She's wearing the purple blouse, tucked into white jeans and boots. Her usual tangle of blonde curls is fairly tamed and the familiar makeup is back in its customary place—across her cheeks and eyes.

"You might want to rethink the boots, though. You have to take them off before you go through the metal detector."

"Naw—it's okay. I can take 'em off and put 'em back on again easy enough." Ryan notices how she runs a anxious hand through her hair—catches herself doing it—pulls it back like she's just touched something hot. He realizes that she's as nervous as he is.

"Oh, and the belt—no belts, no hats."

Trey comes back just as Ryan's beginning to think he might have taken off for parts unknown. He passes the food and coffee to their mother wordlessly and eats as he's getting dressed. When Dawn goes back into the bathroom for a final check-over, Ryan lugs their bags to the door in anticipation of leaving. The smell of the fast food is making him nauseous and he's hoping for a quick exit from the stuffy room once Dawn is finally ready.

"What's this?" Trey points to the small collection of items on the bed.

"That's all we can take in with us."

"Everything else has to be left in the car?"

"Yeah."

"Everything?"

"Yeah."

"Man, if I'm ever looking to break into a bunch of cars, I'm thinking a prison parking lot on visiting day."

Ryan's still contemplating whether to tell his brother that there's probably no lack of security in a prison parking lot when Dawn re-enters the room. She notes that her younger son still hasn't changed his clothing.

"You're not dressed?"

"I'm dressed"

"Short sleeves? It's freezing out there, Ryan."

"He knows that, Mom—you know, considering how he spent last night _outside_."

"What happened—there?" Dawn points to Ryan's left arm, right above the elbow—where he sports four identical yellowing bruises, each about an inch apart. The fifth bruise is on the inside of the arm. That one is bigger and just a bit more oblong, but less conspicuous, unless he makes a conscious effort to expose it by turning his wrist outward.

When Ryan shrugs without comment, his brother answers for him.

"Jesus Christ, Mom. You were there when that stupid fuck was gonna kick his ass for taking money from his wallet."

Dawn doesn't have to ask who Trey is talking about. "Stupid fuck" had been his consistent nickname for her current boyfriend. Used only when Manny wasn't around, of course. Trey was reckless and angry. He wasn't suicidal.

"You took money from Manny's wallet?" Dawn sounds confused.

"You were _there_, Mom."

"I didn't take money from his wallet, Mom. He just thought I did. He found it later, in his jeans."

"He grabbed Ryan by the arm—was yanking him out of the kitchen—he was about to start pounding on him until _you _reminded the stupid fuck about Dad. About how you didn't want to have to explain a black eye when he came to see Dad—Jesus, how do you not fucking remember that?"

"No, no, no. I remember—I remember. I just—I just forgot. I didn't know he'd left a bruise. Ryan, you've got to cover that up."

"I can't. I didn't bring anything else to wear."

He won't meet her eye—and she picks up on it immediately. "That's bullshit, Ry—you have that list memorized. There's no way you just _forgot _to bring something to wear. What the hell's going on?" Dawn's voice raises an octave. "I mean, because if you want your dad to think we're not happy—if you want him to think we're not making it—that I'm just fucking everything up—well, then we're not going. I will _not_ bring you there just to have you tell him how fucking miserable you are."

"No, Mom, I—"

"What the fuck is going on, Ryan? Just tell me what the fuck is going on—because—because—let me fill you in on something that you might have missed. Your father is in fucking prison. He's been in fucking prison for years. He _will be_ in fucking prison for years. And you want to know why he's in fucking prison? It's because he'd enough. He couldn't take it anymore. Not with you, or with me, or with—or with Trey. So he robbed a fucking convenience store with a fucking gun. And he must have know he wasn't going to get away with it, because he didn't even wear a mask—or cover his face—or—or anything. So, he got what he wanted. He got to go away. He got to go away to where he doesn't have to _do_ a goddamn thing. And—and you know what, Ryan? I'm doing the best I can—I'm doing the best I fucking can. But, if you're going to dump a bunch of crap in his lap about how I'm the worst fucking mother in history—I won't have it. I won't. I'm the one who's here for you night after fucking night and he's the one who—just—fucking—_isn't_."

"Does last night count?"

"Trey, shut up. Just—just shut the fuck up. You know—forget it. I'm done. I can't do this. I _won't_ do this." Dawn wipes an angry hand across her eyes, transferring wet smudges of blue and black to the skin on the back of her hand.

Not sure what to do to stop his mother's sudden breakdown, Ryan quickly runs over to his bag, pulls down the zipper and rifles through it until he finds the shirt he'd brought to wear. He holds it up.

"I just didn't want to wear the same thing as Trey. That's all, Mom. Can we please just go? I'll wear the shirt. I won't tell Dad about Manny—or—or about anything else—I promise—I swear."

Support comes from an unexpected source. "Hey, Ry. Wear the black shirt. I can wear my undershirt. It's a t-shirt. It won't make a shit's bit of difference if _I'm _the fuckwad wearing short sleeves in the dead of winter."

Ryan looks hopefully at his mother. Sees that she's still visibly shaking—that she's still in danger of completely losing it.

"Mom, go get cleaned up—if we're gonna go, we oughtta get moving." Trey's voice is surprisingly gentle.

Dawn doesn't react immediately. She's paralyzed and blinded by the hate that rushes over her. My God, how she hates John. She fucking hates him for leaving her alone with the boys. She fucking hates that he gets to be in there and she has to be out here. She's overwhelmed—overwhelmed by all of the reasons she should say no. All of the reasons she should just abort this whole fucking train wreck of a visit before it even begins. She thinks of all the things that could go wrong—and of how she can't think of even one fucking thing that could possibly go right. She's about to say that it's not going to happen when Ryan and Trey come back into focus. _Shit!_ The both of them. Looking so goddamned earnest.

"You think she's gonna go through with it?" Ryan asks when their mother finally stomps back to the bathroom and slams the door behind her.

"Of course she is. She didn't come all this way—she didn't get dressed up—she didn't do all this—for him _not_ to see her."

"She seems pretty mad."

"She'll go."

"You sure?"

"Positive. She's in there right now fixing herself up so that Dad will be jealous as all hell that she wants the divorce."

It's several agonizing minutes later that Dawn finally emerges from the bathroom. She's surprisingly composed. Her bag is slung across her shoulder, her makeup is reapplied and there's no puffiness around her eyes or any other evidence that she'd been crying.

"Okay, let's get this over with." She says with a newfound determination, taking a deep breath and purposefully walking towards the door.

"I'll meet you guys down there. I—I just gotta use the bathroom."

Ryan enters the bathroom. He reaches into his pocket and pours the contents of the bag he found in Trey's duffle into the toilet. Pisses. Flushes. As he's throwing the baggie away, he notes the three empty mini-bottles of vodka in the trashcan. He hopes that they're from the night before—but knows that they're probably not.

As he washes up, Ryan looks in the mirror and hastily runs wet fingers through the cowlicks of his hair in a futile attempt to tame them. He takes a deep breath and leans forward, placing the full weight of his body on the palms of his hands and stares at his reflection.

"_Hey, Dad_." He says it out loud, summoning what he hopes will pass as a smile. He repeats it a few times, surprised with just how strange those two small words sound to his own ears—realizes how long its been since he's uttered them.

Leaving the bathroom, he crosses the now empty motel room and opens the door to the outside. As the door clicks locked behind him and he sees his brother waiting in the passenger seat of the car, he briefly contemplates in just how many different ways Trey is going to kick his ass. Because, Trey is definitely going to kick his ass when he finds out that he dumped his stash. But, as he sprints towards the car through the now driving rain, he also allows himself the slightest glimmer of hope that maybe—just maybe—today will be worth it.


End file.
